Read Online The Red Knight by Miles Cameron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miles Cameron
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blade.
He caught the point of his own blade in his left hand, and tapped it against Tom’s visor. His two handed grip and his stance put Tom’s life utterly in his hands.
‘One,’ he said.
Tom laughed. ‘Brawly feckit!’ he called.
He stepped back and saluted. The captain returned the salute and sidestepped, because Tom came for him immediately.
Tom stepped, then swept forward with a heavy downward cut.
The captain stopped it, rolling the blade well off to the side, but as fast as he could bring his point back on line, Tom was inside his reach—
And he was face down in sheep dip. His hips hurt, and now his neck hurt.
But to complain was not the spirit of the thing.
‘Well struck,’ he said, doing his best to bounce to his feet.
Tom laughed his wild laugh again. ‘Mine, I think,’ he said.
The captain had to laugh.
‘I was planning to chew on your toes,’ he said, and drew a laugh from the onlookers.
He saluted, Tom saluted, and they were on their guards again.
But they’d both shown their mettle, and now they circled – Tom looking for a way to force the action close, and the captain trying to keep him off with short jabs. Once, by thrusting
with his whole sword held at the pommel, he scored on Tom’s right hand, and the other man flicked a short salute, as if to say ‘that wasn’t much’. And indeed, Ser Hugo
stepped between them.
‘I don’t’ allow such trick blows, my lord,’ Hugh said. ‘It’d be a foolish thing to do in a melee.’
The captain had to acknowledge the truth of that assertion. He had been taught the Long Point with the advice
never use this unless you are desperate. Even then—
The captain’s breath was coming in great gasps, while Tom seemed to be moving fluidly around the impromptu ring. Breathing well and easily. Of course, given his advantages in reach and
size, he could control most aspects of the fight, and the captain was mostly running away to keep his distance.
The last five days of worry and stress sat as heavily on his shoulders as the weight of his tournament helm. And Tom was very good. There was really little shame in losing to him. So the captain
decided he’d rather go down as a lion than a very tired lamb. And besides, it would be funny.
So – between one retreat and the next blow – he swayed his hips, rotated his feet so that his weight was back, and let go the sword’s hilt with his left hand. Eastern swordsmen
called it ‘The Guard of One Hand’.
Tom swept in with another of his endless, heavy, sweeping blows. Any normal man would have exhausted himself with them. Not Tom. This one came from his right shoulder.
This time, the captain tried for a
rebatter
defence – his sword sweeping up, one handed, coming slightly behind Tom’s but cutting as fast as a falcon strikes its prey. He
caught Tom’s sword and drove it faster along its intended path as he stepped slightly off-line and
forward
, surprising his companion. His free left hand shot out, and he punched
Tom’s right wrist, and then his left hand was between the big man’s hands, and Tom’s aggressive pursuit of his elusive opponent carried him forward – the captain’s
left hand went deeper, and he achieved the arm lock, and twisted, in complete possession of the man’s sword and shoulder—
And nothing happened. Tom was
not
rotated. In fact, Tom’s rush turned into a swing, and the captain found himself swinging off Tom’s elbow and the giant turned to the left,
and again, and the captain couldn’t let go without tumbling to the ground.
His master-at-arms had never covered this situation.
Tom whirled him again, trying to shake him off. They were at a nasty impasse. The captain had Tom’s sword bound tight, and his elbow and shoulder in a lock too. But Tom had the
captain’s feet off the ground.
The captain had his blade free – mostly free. He hooked his pommel into Tom’s locked arms, hoping it would give him the leverage to, well, to do what should
He caught the point of his own blade in his left hand, and tapped it against Tom’s visor. His two handed grip and his stance put Tom’s life utterly in his hands.
‘One,’ he said.
Tom laughed. ‘Brawly feckit!’ he called.
He stepped back and saluted. The captain returned the salute and sidestepped, because Tom came for him immediately.
Tom stepped, then swept forward with a heavy downward cut.
The captain stopped it, rolling the blade well off to the side, but as fast as he could bring his point back on line, Tom was inside his reach—
And he was face down in sheep dip. His hips hurt, and now his neck hurt.
But to complain was not the spirit of the thing.
‘Well struck,’ he said, doing his best to bounce to his feet.
Tom laughed his wild laugh again. ‘Mine, I think,’ he said.
The captain had to laugh.
‘I was planning to chew on your toes,’ he said, and drew a laugh from the onlookers.
He saluted, Tom saluted, and they were on their guards again.
But they’d both shown their mettle, and now they circled – Tom looking for a way to force the action close, and the captain trying to keep him off with short jabs. Once, by thrusting
with his whole sword held at the pommel, he scored on Tom’s right hand, and the other man flicked a short salute, as if to say ‘that wasn’t much’. And indeed, Ser Hugo
stepped between them.
‘I don’t’ allow such trick blows, my lord,’ Hugh said. ‘It’d be a foolish thing to do in a melee.’
The captain had to acknowledge the truth of that assertion. He had been taught the Long Point with the advice
never use this unless you are desperate. Even then—
The captain’s breath was coming in great gasps, while Tom seemed to be moving fluidly around the impromptu ring. Breathing well and easily. Of course, given his advantages in reach and
size, he could control most aspects of the fight, and the captain was mostly running away to keep his distance.
The last five days of worry and stress sat as heavily on his shoulders as the weight of his tournament helm. And Tom was very good. There was really little shame in losing to him. So the captain
decided he’d rather go down as a lion than a very tired lamb. And besides, it would be funny.
So – between one retreat and the next blow – he swayed his hips, rotated his feet so that his weight was back, and let go the sword’s hilt with his left hand. Eastern swordsmen
called it ‘The Guard of One Hand’.
Tom swept in with another of his endless, heavy, sweeping blows. Any normal man would have exhausted himself with them. Not Tom. This one came from his right shoulder.
This time, the captain tried for a
rebatter
defence – his sword sweeping up, one handed, coming slightly behind Tom’s but cutting as fast as a falcon strikes its prey. He
caught Tom’s sword and drove it faster along its intended path as he stepped slightly off-line and
forward
, surprising his companion. His free left hand shot out, and he punched
Tom’s right wrist, and then his left hand was between the big man’s hands, and Tom’s aggressive pursuit of his elusive opponent carried him forward – the captain’s
left hand went deeper, and he achieved the arm lock, and twisted, in complete possession of the man’s sword and shoulder—
And nothing happened. Tom was
not
rotated. In fact, Tom’s rush turned into a swing, and the captain found himself swinging off Tom’s elbow and the giant turned to the left,
and again, and the captain couldn’t let go without tumbling to the ground.
His master-at-arms had never covered this situation.
Tom whirled him again, trying to shake him off. They were at a nasty impasse. The captain had Tom’s sword bound tight, and his elbow and shoulder in a lock too. But Tom had the
captain’s feet off the ground.
The captain had his blade free – mostly free. He hooked his pommel into Tom’s locked arms, hoping it would give him the leverage to, well, to do what should
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